(love)birds of a feather

chapter eighteen

"Can we go from—" Brett's finger searches the page before landing on a particular measure, "that part again? I think you might have stumbled through some of those runs." 

"Alright. Can we go a bit slower first, though? Like maybe—" Eddy snaps his fingers to a moderately slow beat, as though that of a metronome.

Brett nods. "Yeah, okay."

They make eye contact, Eddy's sharp inhale cueing the two, and their music begins to flurry through the atmosphere again, the voices of their violins harmonizing pleasantly to their ears.

Sibelius 3 Mil is just around the corner, driving them to means of unrelenting hours of practice and perfection of every measure, the calluses on their fingertips burning and concreting anew.

As with his Tchaikovsky, Sibelius violin concerto has been Eddy's piece since forever; whenever Brett looks at him, he sees it—the music has composed his chiseled contour, the softness in his eyes and his smile, every fiber of his very being.

Brett knows the notes and finger placements are rooted deep within Eddy's memory, interwoven with his soul, crafting a familiar place only for every little atom of him, made of everything wonderful. And his prowess on the violin brings light and color to it all.

It's all there in his phrasing and focus, his close attention to every note and marking, Brett can tell, knowing him. The copious amount of effort towards countless, carefully-structured practice sessions is there, clearer than day.

And so they continue practicing, side by side.

After seemingly eons of practicing, Brett looks over to check on Eddy, fixed in front of his music stand, slow-practicing a bar. Tiredness is discernible all across his features—weariness in his eyes, in his wilting bow arm, his focus faltering and being subdued by frustration.

"Eddy, love, you look tired as hell." The plain sight of his stress kindles Brett's concern for him; he walks over, a gentle hand reaching up to cradle Eddy's cheek. "Do you want to take a break?"

"Yeah, I'm beat. But—" Eddy sighs, his eyebrows flying up in exasperation as he rakes his fingers through his disheveled hair, "I don't think I've practiced enough yet."

"You've definitely practiced more than enough. I mean, look at yourself." Brett brushes aside a lock of hair from Eddy's forehead, then lets his hand fall back to his side before he walks over to his violin case. "Take a break—remember what happened to me last month?"

"Yeah," Eddy says from behind Brett as he puts his violin away, and Brett can hear the small breath of relief in his voice. "Guess I'll take a break too, then. For now."

Brett smiles, sitting down on the couch and letting his eyes wander as Eddy packs away his violin and music. He lets his gaze outline the curves of Eddy's shoulders, his face, adoration plausibly undisguised in his eyes.

He thinks back to how he had awoken that morning, with his sleep-addled brain seeking to grasp its surroundings. But no sooner did he comprehend a familiar pair of arms draped around him, a familiar pair of legs tangled with his own. No sooner did he find himself nestled up against a familiar body.

(Or maybe, Brett had presumed then, it'd be more accurate of an image to define them as a tangle of limbs strewn almost haphazardly across the bed, very much still in the realm of sleep.)

He had roused from his sleep in Eddy's arms, finding himself sheathed in a warmth that had him wishing to stay in that beautiful, beautiful setting for eons longer, however foolish it may sound; the warmth of every other flame alight on Earth paled in comparison.